How to Be Popular

by Meg Cabot

  I thought she was being a little overdramatic, but I knew what she meant. Once you’ve ridden to and from school in a BMW, going back to riding the bus has got to be hard.

  Even if you’re getting a little tired of the Bee Gees.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said, patting her comfortingly on the back. “Things are a little nuts right now with the wedding, and all, and—”

  “I think he was lying,” Becca interrupted, wiping her tears with the back of one wrist. “I mean, he took Stuckey with him. STUCKEY! Do you know what Stuckey talked about all during lunch today? Indiana’s 1987 NCAA Final Four victory. He wasn’t even ALIVE in 1987. But he knew every stupid detail. And wouldn’t stop talking about it. And Jason took HIM along to run errands, instead of us. I think he just doesn’t want to hang out with us, because I’m so quiet around him, on account of my great love for him, and you’re so—” She broke off and bit her lip.

  “I’m so what?” I asked. Even though I already knew what she was going to say.

  “You’re just acting so weird!” Becca cried. Almost as if it were a relief finally to say it. “I mean, eating with Darlene Staggs? She’s such a slut!”

  “Hey, now,” I said gently. “Darlene’s not a slut. Just because she’s got big boobs—”

  “They’re store-boughts!” Becca reminded me.

  “They could be,” I said. “But that’s no reason to judge people. Darlene’s really nice. You’d know that, if you’d come sit with me.”

  “Those people don’t want to talk to me,” Becca said, looking down at her shoes. “I mean, to them I’m still the dumb farm girl who used to sleep all through class.”

  “Well, maybe it’s up to you to show them you’re not that girl anymore,” I suggested. “Now, come on, let’s go around so we can get the bus before it—”

  And then I let out an expletive that I was going to have to tell Father Chuck about at confession next week.

  “What?” Becca asked. “What is it?”

  I was looking at my watch. “We missed the bus,” I said tightly.

  Becca repeated my expletive. “Now what are we going to do?” she wailed.

  “No problem,” I said, rallying. It was hot out in the parking lot. I was beginning to sweat. Soon, I knew, my blow-out was going to start to frizz. “I’ll just call my dad. He’ll come get us.”

  “Oh, God,” Becca moaned. Which I understood and wasn’t insulted by. There’s nothing worse than having to be picked up at school by your dad in his minivan.

  It was right then that the miracle occurred.

  “Oh, hey, Steph,” a familiar—but still oddly thrilling voice—called from the doors to the school.

  I knew who it was even before I spun around, because of the goose pimples of delight that had risen on my arms.

  “Hi, Mark,” I said as casually as I could, as I turned….

  And then I saw, with a pang of disappointment, that Lauren and Alyssa were with him.

  Oh well. What did I expect? He’s the most popular guy in school. Did I really think he goes anywhere alone?

  It was right then, though, that things really started looking up….

  “What’s the matter?” Mark asked, noticing Becca’s tears (they were hard to miss, despite her attempt to mop them up). “Miss your ride?”

  “Something like that,” I said with a smile that only Mark returned. Lauren and Alyssa just stared at me stonily.

  But that was okay. Thanks to The Book, I knew the most appropriate course of action to take under the circumstances was to smile sunnily back at them.

  “Geez, that sucks,” Mark said. I couldn’t see his hazel eyes, because they were hidden beneath the lenses of his Ray-Bans. “I’d offer you a ride, but I gotta stay here for after-school practice. I was just walking Lauren to her car.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about us,” I said breezily. At least I hoped I sounded breezy. “We’ll get a ride somehow.”

  “Oh, hey, I know,” Mark said.

  And I knew—I just knew, maybe because Mark is My One—what he was going to say.

  “Why don’t you give them a ride home, babe?” Mark asked Lauren.

  Mark must be HER One, too, though, since she seemed to have known what he was going to say next and had an answer already prepared. Or at least it seemed that way, given how fast she came out with, “Oh, gee, hon, wish I could. But they live in town, and you know that’s so far out of my way.”

  This was actually true. Lauren and her family lived in one of the newer McMansions out by the Y, three miles away from the turn-of-the century (nineteenth, not twentieth) homes, just blocks from the courthouse, that Becca and I live in.

  “Yeah, but weren’t you gonna stop by Benetton downtown to pick up something to wear for the rager on Friday?” Mark asked. “I thought I heard you guys saying something like that.”

  Lauren was caught, and she knew it. Mark had made it clear how grateful he was to me for my brilliant talent auction idea. She didn’t dare dis me right in front of him. There was nothing she could do but smile tightly and say, “Oh yeah. I forgot. You guys want a ride?”

  Beside me, I heard Becca gulp. But I said, still sounding breezy (or so I hoped), “Oh, sure, Lauren. That would be great.”

  “Great,” Mark said.

  And then, super boyfriend that he is, he walked all four of us to Lauren’s red convertible, which sat gleaming in the sun.

  “Later, hon,” Mark said, leaning down to kiss Lauren good-bye, after having held the front seat back for Becca and me to climb past (Becca was so stunned by this development, she didn’t remember to voice her usual argument about how she had to sit in front due to a tendency toward carsickness), then helped Lauren behind the wheel, as tenderly as if she were made of china.

  “Have a good practice,” Lauren said, and twinkled her French manicure at him.

  Then she pulled out of the lot.

  And just like that, Becca and I? We were riding in the backseat of Lauren Moffat’s BMW.

  A part of me expected that as soon as we got to the corner, where Mark could no longer see us, Lauren was going to pull to the side of the road, with a squeal of brakes, and order us to GET OUT, in a voice like that poltergeist from Amityville Horror.

  But she didn’t. Instead, she started making small talk.

  LAUREN MOFFAT WAS MAKING SMALL TALK WITH ME.

  “So,” she said. “Don’t you guys usually ride with that guy? That Jason guy? What happened to him?”

  I loved how Lauren was referring to Jason as “that Jason guy.” As if she hadn’t sat next to him all through second grade, and acted as Snow White to his Prince Charming in the class play (I’d been cast as the Wicked Witch. And yes, tears were shed over getting this part and not Snow White, until Grandpa told me that without the Wicked Witch, there’d be no story, so it was really the most important part of all).

  “He had to go run some errands,” I said.

  “For his grandma,” Becca chimed in. “His grandma is marrying Steph’s grandpa this weekend.”

  Whoa. Talk about TMI. I shot Becca a Cool It look. But she was too far gone. She was babbling like Bloomville Creek.

  “Steph’s the maid of honor,” she went on. “And Jason is best man.”

  “Isn’t that, like, incest?” Lauren asked, shooting Alyssa an amused glance. Alyssa, who was slurping on what had to have been her sixth Diet Coke of the day, stifled a laugh into the can.

  “Why would it be incest?” Becca asked.

  “Well, like, aren’t Steph and that Jason guy going out?” Lauren wanted to know.

  “WHAT?” Becca looked as if she’d been slapped. “No, they aren’t going out.”

  “Really?” Lauren glanced at me in her rearview mirror. “I always thought you two were going out. I mean, you’ve been practically joined at the hip since, what? Kindergarten?”

  I gazed steadily back at her reflection. “Jason and I are friends,” I said.

  “Just friends,” Becca emphasized, leani
ng forward to grab the back of Alyssa’s headrest. “They’re just friends. Jason’s single.”

  Seriously. I know she thinks he’s The One and all. But could she calm down about it?

  “Oh,” Lauren said, cracking another smile in Alyssa’s direction. “That’s a relief.”

  “Really,” Alyssa said, polishing off the remains of her soda. “I mean, that a catch like him is still available.”

  Then the two of them broke down in semi-hysterical giggles.

  I glowered at the backs of their heads. Jason may be a bit of a weirdo. But he’s MY weirdo. How dare they make fun of him?

  I wasn’t too pleased with Becca, either. Why couldn’t she learn to cool it once in a while?

  Lauren pretended like she didn’t remember where I lived, even after I pointed out that she’d been there. She acted like she had no recollection of the burnt oatmeal OR Navy Seal Barbie incidents.

  There is nothing in The Book about needing selective amnesia in order to become popular, but obviously it is a crucial part of the process. You pretty much have to forget all the crappy things people did to you in the past in order to move on to a more successful future. Maybe when this is all over, and I am popular, I’ll write my own book.

  Oh, wait. I already AM popular: Lauren Moffat just gave me a ride home from school.

  And she wasn’t even that mean to me.

  Jason freaking out and refusing to give me rides anymore might just be the best thing that ever happened.

  * * *

  Planets orbit around the sun—people orbit around sunny people!

  Who doesn’t love being around a genuinely happy, cheerful person? No one!

  That’s why it’s important, if you want to be popular, to radiate with enthusiasm and warmth in every situation.

  Don’t let storms cloud your outlook on life! Keep the skies clear and your mood upbeat, and soon everyone will be clamoring to bask in your glow.

  * * *

  Sixteen

  STILL DAY TWO OF POPULARITY

  TUESDAY, AUGUST 29, 11 P.M.

  Not everyone thinks Jason bailing on us is such a good thing. Becca is fit to be tied over it.

  Scrpbooker90: Have you spoken to him? Did he say anything? About me, I mean?

  StephLandry: How could I have spoken to him? You know I haven’t seen him since school, same as you.

  Except that this, of course, was a lie. I had actually seen him getting undressed in his bedroom just half an hour earlier.

  But since this wasn’t even something I was going to mention to Father Chuck, to whom I tell everything (almost), I certainly wasn’t going to mention it to Becca.

  Scrpbooker90: Well, what do you think is going to happen tomorrow? I mean, are we going to have to take the bus?

  StephLandry: I think we’re going to have to prepare ourselves for the possibility.

  Scrpbooker90: I won’t do it. I WON’T. I’m asking my dad to drive us. God, why is Jason DOING this to us? Do you think it might be because he’s realized he has feelings for me, and so can’t stand to be around me, since he thinks he can never have me, not knowing I feel the same way about him?

  I could tell Becca had been reading some of Kitty’s romance novels, which I’d lent her. I hoped she hadn’t gotten to the Turkish-style part yet. Because I knew she’d ask her parents what it meant, and somehow, I’d be the one to get in trouble.

  StephLandry: Um. Maybe.

  Scrpbooker90: Well, will you please ASK him? Or—do you think he’d even TELL you? Maybe I should ask Stuckey to ask him. Do you think I should ask Stuckey?

  StephLandry: Totally. You should totally ask Stuckey. Anything to get her off MY back about it.

  Scrpbooker90: I’m going to do it. I’m going to ask Stuckey. He’s in my chem class. I’ll ask him tomorrow. Oh, thanks, Steph! You’re the best!

  But Becca was actually one of the few people who was of that opinion—that I was the best, I mean. Because I was still getting e-mails from SteffMustDie.

  Nice. Real nice.

  I swear, if I didn’t have Jason’s window to look through every night, I think I’d have gone completely insane by now.

  And I know it’s wrong to spy on him like that. I KNOW.

  But the sight of him—especially in his boxer shorts—just fills me with a deep inner calm unlike nothing I have ever known.

  Actually, it’s sort of like the deep inner calm I felt that night I had to wear his Batman underwear because I’d wet mine.

  I wonder what that means, if anything?

  * * *

  Don’t be a snob!

  No one likes an arrogant person who lords her supposed superiority over others.

  It’s true not all of us were equally blessed with good looks, brains, athletic prowess, or wealth.

  But just because you might possess one or more of these traits is no reason to feel—or act—as if you think you are better than others.

  A popular person is one who practices modesty and allows others to call attention to her good qualities. She never crows about them herself.

  * * *

  Seventeen

  DAY THREE OF POPULARITY

  WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 30, 9 A.M.

  Jason actually pulled over in front of my house while I was standing there this morning, waiting for Mr. Taylor to come by with Becca to pick me up for school.

  The driver’s side window rolled down, and I was assailed by the vocals of Roberta Flack.

  “Nice pants,” Jason said, apparently in reference to my dark-rinse stretch jeans, in which, I don’t mind saying myself, I looked pretty good.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Well,” he said sort of impatiently, after a minute, “are you getting in, or what? Where’s Bex?”

  “Becca’s dad is driving us to school this morning,” I said. “We figured after yesterday, you were no longer interested in the position.”

  “What position?”

  “Of our chauffeur.”

  Jason brushed some hair from his face. Kitty is right. He DOES need to get his hair cut before the wedding.

  “I told Becca,” he said with what seemed like forced composure, “that I had some errands to run. That doesn’t mean I never want to give you guys rides, ever. I just couldn’t do it yesterday afternoon.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, unconvinced, and sounding it.

  “I had to pick up the place cards from the calligrapher for Grandma,” Jason went on. “For the tables at the reception.”

  “Sure you did,” I said.

  “And then I had to drop some stuff off at the printer. And I mean, it’s not like you guys couldn’t take the bus. It drops you off in front of your house, practically.”

  “Of course it does,” I said. “I mean, if you’d told us enough in advance, then we could have gotten in front of the school to pick it up.”

  Jason stared at me. “You missed the bus?”

  “Yes,” I said. “But that’s okay. We got a ride in Lauren Moffat’s car.”

  Jason paled. “Not the 645Ci.”

  “That’d be the one.”

  Jason smacked the side of his fist against his steering wheel.

  “What is going on?” he practically screamed. Which wasn’t very cool, because we don’t live on a very screamy street. I mean, there are a lot of rich elderly people on our street—even if my family isn’t exactly what you’d call well off, let alone elderly. I could see a lace curtain move in Mrs. Hoadley’s front room as she tried to figure out what was going on outside my house (it hasn’t been easy for her, living across the street from a family of seven…soon-to-be eight. In fact, at Halloween, my mom makes us throw out anything she gives us, thinking it’s probably poisoned. But since, for a rich person, Mrs. Hoadley is a total cheapskate and only gives out saltines, we’ve never minded).

  But Jason seemed to neither notice nor care that his outburst was attracting the interest of our geriatric neighbors.

  “What happened to you?” he yelled. “Why are you ac
ting so weird?”

  “I could ask you the very same question,” I said calmly.

  “I’m not the one acting weird,” Jason yelled. “You are! And Becca—she won’t quit following me around! It’s like having a freakin’ puppy on my heels all the damned time! And you—since when do you get rides home from LAUREN MOFFAT?”

  At that moment I saw the Taylors’ Cadillac pull up behind The B. Fortunately the windows were all rolled up, so it was doubtful Becca had overheard what Jason had shouted about her. Through the windshield, I saw Mr. Taylor, looking sleepy and confused, stare at Jason’s car, stopped in the middle of the street, then tap gently on the horn.

  “That’s my ride,” I said to Jason. “I gotta go.”

  And I left him to slip into the air-conditioned backseat of the Taylors’ car. No one inside of it was complaining about anyone killing them softly with his song, which was a relief. Mr. Taylor only listens to talk radio.

  “What’s Jason doing here?” Becca asked all excitedly. “Did he come to pick us up? Should we ride with him? Oh, gee, sorry, Dad, but—”

  “Wait,” I said as Becca reached for the door handle. “Don’t. Just—”

  “But if he wants to drive us, we might as well—”

  Fortunately at that moment Jason put the pedal to the metal (in the vernacular of his favorite musical time period) and took off.

  “Aw,” Becca said, her hand still on the door handle. “He left!”

  “Believe me,” I said. “It’s better this way.”

  “I do not understand what is going on with you girls,” Mr. Taylor said in his slow, sleepy voice. “But can I take ya’ll to school so I can get home and get back to bed?”